Critical Condition
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“I can't leave anymore, because if I were to leave now, I would like never be able to live the same way, because of the comrades who have fallen and the comrades that are still with me… I would not be able to have that guilt with me.”
Dr. Sunshine— a pseudonym that reflects both his warmth and resilience— is a Burmese physician whose life has become deeply intertwined with Myanmar’s modern struggle for freedom and survival. Born and raised in Yangon, he began with the simple dream of becoming a doctor but soon collided with the realities of systemic poverty and political dysfunction. “Back home in Myanmar, being a doctor doesn't give you much income,” he says, explaining that new physicians earn just $100–150 per month. Like many of his peers, he left medicine soon after graduating from medical school to pursue business, seeking stability. Yet when Myanmar’s 2021 military coup shattered the nation, he experienced a moral awakening that drew him back to medicine—this time, not in a hospital, but on the frontlines of revolution.
When the military seized power, peaceful protests spread rapidly across Myanmar. Dr. Sunshine joined them—first as a citizen demanding justice, then as a medic tending to the wounded. In those early days, protesters faced tear gas, rubber bullets, and, eventually, live ammunition. He remembers standing beside a young man who was shot in the head, helpless to intervene. That moment, he says, changed his life. “This is not okay,” he recalls thinking. “We have to do more.” He realized that even with a medical degree, he lacked the training to save lives under such conditions. “I found out there’s this thing called tactical combat medicine,” he says. “I was like, ‘Okay, I need to learn that!'”
With the help of foreign friends who sponsored his course, he became one of Myanmar’s first civilian doctors trained in combat medicine. He quickly began teaching others— first in person to small protest groups, later online to resistance fighters and medics hiding in the jungle. Even as repression intensified, he continued his work from Yangon while caring for his ailing father, who was too fragile to leave. Only after the regime announced a national conscription law did Dr. Sunshine finally flee to Thailand, with his father’s blessing.
Once in exile, he connected with other doctors and activists near the Thai-Myanmar border, particularly around Mae Sot. His mission was not to align with any single People’s Defense Force (PDF) unit, but to train as many people as possible. Remaining independent allowed him to travel freely, offering life-saving instruction across ethnic and regional lines. His workshops combined the technical and the emotional: “I’ll shoot him in the hand,” he would tell trainees in a role playing exercise. “He will have three minutes until he bleeds out. What are you going to do?” The blunt scenario captured the urgency of his purpose.
Over time, Dr. Sunshine trained countless medics, traveling through dangerous terrain and sleeping in hammocks under threat of airstrikes and landmines. His days ranged from relative comfort at border camps—where trainees shared rice and meat—to long stretches in the jungle sustained only by vegetables or sardines. He taught men and women, Buddhists and Muslims alike, emphasizing not only skill but solidarity. “We have Muslim soldiers,” he says. “Even during Ramadan, [the non-Muslim PDFs] respect the prayer times and fasting.” He continues with pride: “It’s incredible how everyone comes together inside, even [towards] women and LGBT—they all treat them equally.” His lessons, he says, are often punctuated by laughter and dark humor—a coping mechanism amid constant fear and loss. “Once you get used to the people and the situation, it’s not very scary anymore,” he says. “The more you face it, the more you experience it. It becomes less of fear. It just becomes like a normal thing.”
Through these journeys, he has witnessed the human dimension of Myanmar’s revolution. “The [PDFs] are like, ‘Okay, this is a goal,' and they have to do it now. It’s not because of their anger or anything, but because this is the right thing,” he says. “They want federal democracy. That’s what they want.” The young fighters he meets—often teenagers who lost parents or siblings to the junta’s brutality—begin their struggle driven by rage. Over time, he sees that rage transform into purpose. He speaks with awe about the change he’s seen—a profound shift in a nation long divided by ethnic and religious prejudice.
But heroism carries a heavy cost. Many of Dr. Sunshine’s students have died in combat—sometimes days after training. Each loss cuts deeply. “Every time I go in for a training, when I come back, I’ll cry like a baby in my room,” he admits, adding that the coping mechanisms they turn to are another area of concern. “You’ll have these kids who are like 14–15, and cannot sleep without a sip of alcohol anymore,” he says. “Mental health is definitely going to become a big problem later in the future. I’m terrified of the future for these kids right now.” Sadly, mental health support is nonexistent; there are no therapists in the jungle, and soldiers struggling with trauma rely only on camaraderie, humor, and endurance.
Beyond teaching, Dr. Sunshine helps run mobile and stationary clinics on both sides of the border. Because Burmese doctors cannot legally practice in Thailand, his team operates discreetly, often under threat of deportation. They send scouts ahead on motorbikes to check for checkpoints before delivering medicine to migrant villages and refugee camps. Inside Myanmar, he helped establish a semi-permanent forest clinic. Opened in January 2025, it treated nearly 750 patients in its first month and more than 1,800 by July—a mix of resistance fighters, displaced civilians, and families.
The clinics treat everything from shrapnel wounds and amputations to malaria, kidney disease, and snake bites. Casualty Collection Points (CCPs) are placed about fifteen minutes from the front lines—close enough for quick evacuation, far enough to avoid direct shelling. “All we’re doing is trying to extend the life of a patient that comes in until they get to a hospital or clinic that can help treat them,” he explains. “I was at one PDF base,” he adds, noting the extremely limited materials at present, “and they have four or five hundred soldiers there, and only two tourniquets!” Improvisation is constant—emergency chest seals made from plastic wrap, C-sections performed with mismatched instruments scavenged from supply boxes.
Despite the hardships, Dr. Sunshine remains a source of light for those around him. He delights in pranking foreign volunteers—once teaching one to greet a commander in Burmese with a curse word instead of “See you tomorrow.” He says laughter is indispensable; without it, the grief would be unbearable. He recalls two trainees who once broke an arm trying to catch a falling jackfruit—a story that still makes him laugh... even though both later died in an airstrike. For him, humor and heartbreak are inseparable.
The nickname “Dr. Sunshine” came from foreign colleagues who noticed his ever-present smile, even in the darkest moments. His Burmese nickname, “Dr. Sunflower,” carries the same warmth. Yet behind the smile lies exhaustion. He manages the clinic’s operations and finances, constantly worrying about raising enough to pay his small staff. The doctors earn just 5,000 baht—about $130—a month, barely enough to survive. The entire operation runs on roughly $3,000 monthly, sustained by small NGO grants and family donations.
Asked if he considers himself courageous, Dr. Sunshine rejects the label. Like the young revolutionaries he trains, he insists he is only doing what is right. To him, true courage belongs to the teenagers living in the jungle, risking everything for a better Myanmar. Yet his story embodies the same spirit: an educated man who could have chosen comfort but instead chose service, compassion, and danger.
He continues to teach, to heal, and to hope. His message to the world is simple but profound: “Don’t give up on us. Even just words of support mean everything.”